


Baka Mitai

by Gozufucker



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Crude, Death, Gen, Gore, This is just a sad fic in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 05:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12247551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gozufucker/pseuds/Gozufucker
Summary: I truly am not a good man.





	Baka Mitai

**Author's Note:**

> Another thing that just came to mind and was then put into words. Please, enjoy.

The sickening squelch of blood under his boot was all that he could hear for so many steps, traversing through the halls of the western-styled mansion as he turned a corner, staring down one of the first victims of the massacres he’d partaken in. By now, the whole mansion stunk of a slaughterhouse. He’d killed… Thirty? Thirty of the top brass.

Their organizations didn’t work in a similar style as the Yakuza back in japan did. They had their own hierarchy and structures, but he’d learned them thoroughly on his one man crusade. He had begun from the bottom, doing in little street rats that dealt drugs and pimped out women either shipped in from some poor Asian countries or those that had willingly chosen this life, only to regret it later.

He’d moved up eventually, moving to higher and higher men, until this mansion was all that remained. Of course, he’d faced his troubles during his mission. His back was littered with scars, his front torn to shreds on a few occasions, his mind so baffled by all the horrible shit he’d come to witness, but by now he was too far in to quiet.

It lost its flavor at around the 15th kill. And here he was, performing… Who knows, the 100th? Only two men were left to his knowledge, though. He’d be free soon. Free from this obligation he’d set forth to himself for the sake of mom and dad, and for the sake of her.

The second-to-last one peeked out from behind a corner, staring at Hoshi as he passed said corner, too deep in his thoughts, eyes sunk back into his skull like he was high on ten different drugs at the same time. The coward of a mafioso let out a wheeze as he crawled along the floor, past the mushed up remains of his comrade, through the blood, feeling it stain his chin as he tried to get through the doorway. He’d be free soon.

Free from life.

The steel ball came in a sudden curve, boring right through the back of the victim’s skull before then destroying the brain, leaving the corpse slumped over in the doorway. Hoshi quietly made his way over and sunk his hand to grab the ball, ignoring whatever else his hand touched until he felt the solid feeling of steel around his grip. With one yank, the ball was free and in his court again.

That was the second to last.

He turned and walked again in utter silence, sunken eyes examining the doors. No-one had escaped, he knew that much. He’d eliminated a few that had tried, though. And eventually, there was only one room left. He pushed the door open and examined his surroundings. It’s just a recreational one. Pool table and all, with his final victim cowering in the corner.

Was this the boss? He didn’t know. He’d stopped asking questions so long ago. Maybe he’d killed the boss ages ago. These were the last scraps of the whole group, and that’s all he cared for. He took a few steps forwards, ignoring the mafioso’s pleas of mercy as he finally made it to stand right in front of the man.

He was crying. Which he? Which of them? He didn’t know. There were tears trailing down those cheeks. Should he offer mercy? Should he let this final man stand, make his way out, and live his life knowing that everything around him had crumbled?

Smack. The steel ball in Hoshi’s hand had been lifted and slammed right into the mafioso’s cheek, causing some bones to crack as he was sent down onto the floor, unmoving after that. He wasn’t dead, just knocked out. Hoshi stood before him as he lifted the steel ball high and then slammed it down right where the head was. The loud crack reminded him of the melons he’d cracked with her during the summer, eating the delicious fruit while they watched the sun rise.

Blood stained his face as he watched. The head had exploded into bits and pieces from the sheer force of the final slam, leaving a little crater where the steel ball was sunk into the floor, leaving cracks. He didn’t bother to pick it up. 

He sat down next to the corpse. Pressing against it’s stomach with his back reminded him of how he’d sat on her lap while on the train. It was childish and stupid, but she’d insisted, and he let her have her ways after a while. She didn’t leak blood all over his back, but that was just a small difference.

His hand gripped the phone he fished out from his pocket as he quietly called the local emergency number, quietly murmured the address and the issue at hand, and closed the phone, throwing it away somewhere far away into the corner of the room.

He laid his head back and let it rest against the immobile stomach of his victim, hand stroking the broken bits of his head and the steel ball buried within the crater.  
“I really am clumsy and bad with words.”

He chuckled. These were the first words he’d spoken in days or even weeks. He’d been so taken up in his quest that he’d almost forgotten the words, speaking in fluent English. It’s the language she understood, although she’d been learning Japanese as a means of communicating with his family.

“I could’ve just said sorry. Apologized. I didn’t have to do all this, did I?”

He laughed and gripped the steel ball harder, driving it deeper into the small crater.

“I’m so stupid.”

The blaring police sirens led him to a wonderland of memories as he laid there against his victim, the pool room reeking of shit. Ah. He must’ve released his bowels moments before death.

What a shitty ending to a shitty day.


End file.
